Restitution (3 page)

“In this country, I'm afraid they think they can smell a Jew. Anti-Semitism is bred here, and singling us out is sport,” his father said, breaking Karl's concentration. It was unlike his father to speak so plainly about the centuries of political and social discrimination toward Jewish people. Usually he shrugged the history off. “History and reality are two different entities,” Victor had been fond of saying. Today, the two seemed to merge in his frank acknowledgment, taking Karl aback. “The police will do nothing about this,” his father added, gesturing toward the paint that had dripped down onto the sidewalk, leaving a line of small white puddles like stars dotting a dark sky. “They say it's probably just some kids playing.”

“And you?” Karl asked. “What do you think?”

Once again, his father retreated to a place where he seemed willing to dismiss the vandalism. “I'm sure it's nothing,” he said with a shrug. “Kalina, come here and help clean this off,” Father called to his chauffeur, who stood awkwardly to one side. By now there was a crowd of onlookers gathering in front of the house. “We're not here to create a spectacle for everyone.” Kalina nodded and ran to get supplies from the garage. When he returned, Karl stepped forward to assist him.

“What do
you
think of this?” Karl asked as he and the chauffeur began to scrub at the paint that covered the wall.

“It's a sign,” Kalina replied, glancing nervously at the sky and then shaking his head. Only in his early thirties, Kalina seemed much older, due in part to his many superstitions. He would spit three times if he passed a nun on the road, or if a black cat crossed in front of the car while he was driving. Karl was amused by the assortment of rituals and routines that controlled Kalina's life. Still, Kalina was a loyal employee, and had secretly taught Karl to drive, well before the legal age. Once a year, the chauffeur would perform a general maintenance of the family automobile. He would disassemble the engine, clean the parts, and then reassemble it. Karl was fascinated with the mechanical working of the car and eagerly followed Kalina around like a puppy, lapping up as much information as he possibly could.

“The Germans are going to take over the country. Mark my words,” Kalina continued brusquely as he rolled up his sleeves and began to scrub the wall with sweeping brush strokes. The muscles stood out on his burly arms and sweat glistened on his forehead. But Kalina was an inconsistent forecaster, one month raging about a possible German invasion and the next month equally adamant about a Russian takeover.

With the help of strong ammonia and several steel brushes, the paint was removed in no time. But even after all traces of the graffiti were gone, Karl still felt uneasy. He was putting the pails and brushes away just as Kalina brought the car around for his father.

Father eased himself into the back seat of the black Peugeot and rolled down the window. “Karl,” he called to his son. “I have to see a client today. Go and look after your mother. She's more worried about this than she ought to be.” With that, he gestured to the chauffeur and the car moved forward, leaving Karl alone on the street.

He glanced again at the house.
Should Mother be so worried?
he wondered.
Shouldn't father be more worried?

“Such a terrible thing,” Leila cried as Karl reentered the house. She spoke in German, the language in which she had been raised and the one she had taught to Karl and Hana. Leila clasped and unclasped her hands, shaking her head, and gathering her apron into a knot. “Who would do such a thing to this family?”

Leila wasn't helping the situation, Karl thought. She was merely adding fuel to the frenzy of worry that gripped the household. He needed to escape the overheated city and his agitated family. He walked out the door, grabbed his bicycle from the garage, and rode quickly out of town and toward the pond. A long ride and swim would make him feel better.

Karl wound his way through the streets, passing the town hall, the brewery, the library, and the theater. His journey took him past the old synagogue with its twin Roman towers and matching minarets. A large stone Star of David adorned the archway over the double doors at its entrance, surrounded by stucco ornaments and gilded windows. The building dated back to 1763, and its interior always felt dark and slightly mysterious to Karl. The presiding rabbi did not live in town. He came in from Saatz
*
to celebrate the High Holidays and to give Jewish instruction to young boys. Karl often skipped the monthly classes. He had had a bar mitzvah of sorts, just a small service in the rabbi's study, attended by his parents. It was a rite of passage that meant little to Karl or his family.

Close to the synagogue was the Jewish cemetery where marble and granite stones were engraved with Stars of David, crowns, and hand symbols. Here the memories were powerful. As a small boy, Karl had walked here with his father almost every Sunday to visit the graves of his grandparents. Before entering, Victor would remove a handkerchief from his pocket, tie a knot in each of the four corners, and place this makeshift skull cap on Karl's head. Karl would place pebbles on the gravestones of his grandparents, following the biblical practice of marking graves with a pile of stones. He never fully understood what this ritual meant, though he knew it was a sign of love and respect.

In the distance, Karl could hardly miss the splendor of the lofty High Gate, which dominated the landscape. Everyone in town took pride in this majestic landmark. Built in 1517, the High Gate was really a tower constructed of rough stone and mortar in an almost perfect square. Jutting out from each of the building's three levels, stone gutters shaped like pigs, frogs, and knights channeled water from the roof. Rakovník's coat of arms had been carved prominently above the archway at the entrance.

Karl left the town behind him and rode south along the river Berounka, passing deep woods interspersed with large, sun-soaked meadows. Fifty kilometers to the east lay the capital city of Prague. Karl's father did business there on an almost weekly basis, chauffeured by Kalina across the intersections of roads and railways, undulating hills and flat fields. Occasionally, Karl had joined his father on these trips. Though he reveled in the bustle of the big city, today he was grateful for the tranquility of the countryside.

The pond was quiet, just the way he had hoped it would be on this warm summer day. Karl enjoyed his time alone. He had few friends and tended to keep to himself. Perhaps it was the casual anti-Semitism that prevailed. Even the teachers couldn't hide their contempt for the few Jewish students at the school. When teaching a lesson one day, Mr. Ulrich, the geography teacher, had posed a question and commented, “Even the Jews should be smart enough to know this.”

There was one Christian boy with whom Karl was friendly, Miloš Nigrin, the son of the local druggist. Miloš never joined in when others taunted Karl. He was a frequent guest at the Reiser dinner table and the two boys often cycled together. Karl's other friend was George Popper, the only other Jewish boy at the school and a year ahead of Karl.

But today, Karl was relieved and grateful that none of his fellow students were at the pond. He didn't want conversation; he certainly didn't want anyone to interrogate him about the graffiti – and by now word might have spread. He even wondered if some might doubt the incident had ever happened, or worse, might use it as an excuse for further assaults upon his family. Either way, all Karl wanted was peace and seclusion. In those moments of solitude, he could slip out of himself and reflect more clearly on events.

The pond was his favorite retreat. The water here was deep and clean, and the surrounding fields provided an inviting area to picnic and relax with friends and family. Flanking the field were tall pine trees that grew in a tight formation. Sparrows and robins nestled atop the swaying branches and sang their endless symphony. Each year, a competition was held here. Those who swam three times around the pond and jumped off the tall wooden diving tower at one end were awarded with flowers.

Karl was a strong and natural swimmer. He dropped his bicycle in the tall grass, stripped down to his bathing trunks, and dove in. The water was cool and refreshing. Each stroke around the perimeter of the swimming pond seemed to calm him. His arms cut silently and efficiently through the water, propelling him forward and clearing his mind.

By the time he returned home, the heat of the day had begun to recede; he was feeling refreshed and had placed the vandalism in the back of his mind.
It was just another stupid kid in town doing something cowardly
, Karl thought.
And we're the easy target
. But when Father walked in at the end of the day, the conversation about the graffiti resumed and within minutes the good feeling from the swim was gone.

“We're deluding ourselves if we think this is nothing,” his mother ranted, picking up where she had left off that morning. “Look at what's happening in Germany.”

“Honestly, Marie. You're blowing this out of proportion,” Victor replied, removing a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his brow and balding head. Sweat poured from his red face. “Czechoslovakia is not Germany and it never will be! We're a democracy. Czechs would never tolerate having the Nazis and their rules here.” Like so many others, Karl's father held fast to the belief that if Germany threatened to invade, Britain and France would come to Czechoslovakia's aid.

“But, Victor, how do you know that?” Mother was pacing, moving across the floor of the salon like a tiger striding back and forth in its cage. Strands of hair from her perfectly coifed bun had loosened and floated across her flushed cheeks and forehead. Her brow was furrowed and her mouth was drawn in a tight, determined line. “Germany used to be a democracy, and now the Germans are rallying behind Hitler,” she declared. “There is no protection for Jews under the law in Germany, none whatsoever.”

Victor was equally adamant. “We are more Czech than Jewish,” he insisted.

Karl watched this exchange from his chair in the corner of the room. As his eyes moved back and forth from his mother to his father, he imagined he could see their arguments flying across the room like a ping pong ball from one of the tournaments he had played in at school. As always, he was pensive during these discussions, weighing what his parents had to say, and wondering who was more right. He had listened to his parents argue about the political situation in their country many times. Mother was typically negative and apprehensive during these exchanges, while Father was quick to placate her and neutralize her anxiety.

“It's as if it's open season on Jews in Germany,” mumbled Marie, oblivious to her husband's comments. “It seems that with his promise of prosperity for all German citizens, people are quick to overlook Hitler's darker side.”

“In this country it's different. There are still many who will stand up for their Jewish friends and neighbors,” Victor insisted.

“You're blind, Victor,” Marie finally said, shaking her head. “Czechoslovakia will not escape Hitler's wrath. We should think about leaving,” she announced suddenly.

Karl's eyes shot up. This was a first. Mother was actually suggesting that the family run from their country.

“Ridiculous!” snapped his father. “There is no reason to leave. Besides, Jews are coming here to Czechoslovakia for their safety.”

“It's true!” Karl interjected from his spot on the sidelines. “I read in the newspaper that there are Jews from Austria, Hungary, and Germany who have been flooding across our borders to escape persecution in their own homelands.” If Czechoslovakia was considered a safe haven by those from other countries, then surely it was safe for Karl and his family.

His mother shook her head. “Then they are naive if they think this country will protect them. I say we pack up the family and get out while we still can.”

“We are secure here in this community,” Victor insisted, “in a country that will defend itself, and defend us if necessary.”

It seemed as if the conversation would end there, but Marie perched herself on the edge of one of the settees. She glanced over at Karl and then turned to face her husband. “I have to tell you something, Victor,” she began. “I've been sending some of our money to a bank in Paris.”

Victor's jaw dropped and for once he seemed at a loss for words.

“I've been doing it for several months now,” she continued.

“But how?” sputtered Victor.

Marie sat up straighter and thrust her chin forward defiantly. “I've been buying up foreign currency and transferring it to the Crédit Lyonnais.”

Victor was furious. “But Marie, this is an illegal activity!” Foreign currency exchanges were not permitted unless they were declared to the government.

“I don't care,” replied Marie. “I'm creating a nest egg, a safety net for our family in the event that we need to get out of Czechoslovakia. And judging from recent events, this may happen sooner than you think.” She leaned forward now, pleading with her husband. “Don't you see, Victor? We'll have money waiting for us outside these borders.”

Karl gazed at his mother. It was so unlike her to take a stand like this against Father – to do something without his consent.

“Don't you realize that you are putting us in grave danger?” Victor asked. By now his father's face had turned such a deep shade of crimson that Karl feared he might pass out if further provoked.

Marie was undeterred. “I'm glad I've done it,” she replied. “And I plan to send some of our belongings as well – clothing and household goods. I'll send them to Mr. Kolish, that associate of yours in Holland. He can keep some things for us in case we need them. I won't stand back and watch this country and our lives fall apart,” she added firmly. “If no one else is going to plan for this family, then I will.”